


made my decision to test my limits

by r1ker



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 04:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6889318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker





	made my decision to test my limits

At first, Jackson thinks it's funny.

 

He can't seem to get Holland beneath him without there being some sort of a crisis. Holland being too stiff with pleasure to do much of anything except lie there and hope he doesn't come in his pants not five seconds into the act, knees locked almost painfully to keep Jackson's wandering hands from striking the flame that finally ignites the powder keg. Most of the time it's him staying focused on only Holland's stunned face, mouth open and eyes searching the ceiling for the answer to whatever silent question his brain has posed for consideration.

 

Jackson asks him once, "You okay? Need to take a break?" While inquiring as to his current state of mind very close to buck naked Jackson moves into action. He shoves away offending clothes, leaves button up shirts balled up at Holland's sides. In his way comes attention he wouldn't give to anyone that wasn't his partner.

 

Familiarizing yourself with someone's body is better said than done if left for Jackson to decide. What he does learn, perhaps becomes a great pupil of, is the way Holland flushes high on his chest with Jackson's hands cupping his hips. It's a warm sort of thing, starting from a center point and radiating outward like it's coming to meet where Jackson's mouth is almost always affixed to his chest.

 

All the while Holland shakes like he's being controlled by some inner force, unable to stay still even when Jackson pulls back to catch his own breath. Jackson's tongue passes over goosebumps, feels it tremble near Holland's throat as he tries to speak through the ministrations. Most of the time it's hopeless pleas meant to mean nothing but a signal that the end is near should Jackson choose to continue down this path. Holland's voice will get higher and higher, full of breath to where it seems to be nothing but inhales disguised poorly as words.

 

And Jackson will lose that edge of humor this façade managed beautifully. And he will come close to losing it much like Holland is doing before him.

 

"No, I'm fine," Holland excuses all too politely for a man being handled roughly in an effort to arrange him just right on the bed. Hips eased apart almost effortlessly, propped up gently with an unused pillow, bit within an inch of bleeding when Jackson's own passion reaches a treacherous fever pitch. What does come close to bleeding later on, much later, after Jackson's had to shush him through three lubed fingers and a rewarding kiss to the tip of his cock, is Jackson's scalp.

 

Holland does like to get handsy when he doesn’t seem to have anything else to do with his limbs. Jackson has to bite back the groan that's produced when the ragged half moons of the man's fingernails dig and dig at his skin, urging him on, faster, keep going. So Jackson does, doing whatever he happens to have on his mind on this particular night. Often it's him buried inside Holland, coming in close to the man as much as he can. All of him engulfs Holland to the point of being stifling but all the while Holland drinks him in, offers his own strangled groans as Jackson begins to move.

This is where Holland gathers what's left of his focus and puts it into looking Jackson down. It'll stray from time to time, be lost in the way Jackson digs into him with each bone-jarring thrust, how his heels dig incessantly high on Jackson's back to make him go deeper, stray away from the shallow little movements he's adopted to savor the moment. Jackson never gives in no matter how hard Holland jabs at him, stays pushing at his body in short motions.

 

Holland very nearly loses it in the way Jackson breathes into his hair in an effort to stay concentrated on fucking him, sighing through his nose and inhaling in the small space where his mouth stays away from the strands of hair tickling his lips. On him he can smell notes of cologne that shouldn’t be so fitting for a man of his character, of his personality. It clings to Jackson as he hones in on perhaps the lesser tended-to parts of Holland, the tip of his nose along the shell of his ear, the short bristle where his hair tapers into nothingness.

 

Holland doesn't stop making noise even as the motions speed up, Jackson gradually giving into his unspoken demands. Many of them sound like he's close to choking on them in that they hang up in his throat on the tail end of a breath. In the end it's the overwhelmed gasps that want to try their hardest to do Jackson in, limitless sounds of complete submission. He presses further up into Jackson, almost to where their bellies meet. One of Holland's legs moves jerkily in the air as his cock becomes trapped against them both.

 

Something sounding like _please_ makes its way out into the air followed by Holland's arms wrapping around Jackson's shoulders for dear life. Holland repeats himself again, this time with his mouth closer to Jackson's ear. "Jackson, I can't…" He's so at a loss for words as to what he can't do that he keeps on repeating it like a mantra, so much so that Jackson stops hearing it, lets him speak aloud as if to reassure himself of his limits.

 

After a while it's too much and Jackson can't stop cringing each time Holland's whimpers, his muffled cries reach their peak. He stops, himself on the cusp of his orgasm, and pulls out, allowing his body to roll over limp to his side of the bed. Taking a few moments to catch his breath he tries to come up with a way to proceed after learning firsthand that maybe tonight isn't Holland's night.

 

"Hey," he whispers when Holland looks at him with eyes damn near pleading, feeling for all the world responsible for putting the dampers on what was to be a frankly intense night. "Roll over. Hands and knees." The command is obeyed in a brief instant, Holland taking a second to recollect himself before doing so. His back arches up into Jackson's tongue running down the knobs of his spine, reverberating in its tense state as Jackson enters him once again.

 

This time there's no tension at all waiting for Jackson. In fact he finds it easier than ever to fill Holland up. His hands again cross all parts of Holland's torso, where the rise and fall of his belly signals a breathing pattern beginning to return to one at rest. Jackson stares straight ahead since he's no longer facing Holland, and watches the headboard sway ominously to and from as the two of them. Above it a painting of a ship long gone to a stormy sea rocks on one solitary nail, a hurried attempt on Jackson's part to make Holland think he wasn't shacking up in the place he'd been renting for months now. His lifestyle seemed, at the time, to be making it damn near impossible to maintain some aggregated sense of domesticity.

 

With a final groan bordering on a shout of triumph Holland comes onto the bed sheets below him, tightening up again from his head to his toes. Jackson watches his hands fist into those very same bedclothes, almost ripping them at their seams between fingers previously doing the same to Jackson's hair. Finally he releases, lowers himself slowly onto the bed, panting harshly.

 

Jackson's still working with his knees crooked around Holland's relaxed hips. Success finally comes on the end of a thrust taking him just out of Holland with the tip remaining inside. He lets out an uneasy breath and comes, feeling the snake made of two parts anxiety over Holland's experience and one part relief uncoil and fade into a heavy background.

 

After Holland doesn't come to him as easily as in times past. He lingers on his side of the bed, still oddly wracked with fine tremors not allowing him to stay still for a second. Jackson longs to get to the root of the issue, find out what's made tonight unbearable for his sensory system. The curiosity threatens to kill him until he looks over at Holland to see him swiping away long-shed tears with the back of his hand.

 

"Sorry," Holland mumbles past the backs of his knuckles, which work fervently to shoo away any sign of adverse emotion. When he tries to reach over to the nightstand closest to his side of the bed, turn on a light so that he might see his way to the adjoining bathroom to finally get himself to _stop fucking crying,_ Jackson stops him, a gentle hand grasping high up on his forearm.

 

Jackson shakes his head for a moment when Holland's eyes meet his. "It's okay." It seems his small gesture has done enough to allow Holland's brain to pressure him into staying and he keeps the light off. He tumbles back onto the bed as he rolls into his rightful place in the hold Jackson's arms make. And it's enough.


End file.
